


Endurance

by kronette



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Predicament Bondage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-14
Updated: 2014-11-14
Packaged: 2018-02-25 07:44:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2613860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kronette/pseuds/kronette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The idea behind this story came from Dean being told about Sam's demon blood, and Sam learning about it in All Hell Breaks Loose. It was written before season 4 aired. </p><p>Dean is pushed to the limits of his endurance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Endurance

**Author's Note:**

> This story is seven years old (started in 2007). I never posted it, though I can only guess it was because I thought it was too extreme for me and I wasn't comfortable with the subject matter. Now...not so much.

One word would end it.

He’d stacked the broken concrete blocks himself, two towers just over two feet in height. He’d selected the steel bar that rested precariously across the top of the towers. He’d swung the ropes around the exposed ceiling beams, but that was where his contributions ended.

Just one word, and it would end. He _wanted_ it to end, but that meant failure, and everything within him wouldn't allow that. 

He choked back another sound that threatened to give him away, but in the process, flexed his leg muscles minutely.

His pained noise escaped on a gasp of breath, almost as startling as the next wave of agonizing torture through his stretched limbs. Nothing could stop his high-pitched wail or the seizing of his muscles. He ordered his body to still; tensed muscles relaxing a fraction, just enough to give him room to breathe. 

Sweat mingled with tears of denial on a rolling trail through his hair onto the floor. He felt each bead on its journey, whether across his temples, down his neck, at the small of his back or at the back of his knees. 

Balanced precariously as he was on the steel bar between the two raised blocks, the slightest change in his breathing or the unexpected muscle spasm could send it rolling. The blocks were less than three inches wide, leaving little room for error. As the sweat pooled at his lower back, it slicked the bar and made it easier to maneuver. It also made it harder to control. A miscalculation would slide the bar off the blocks and broadcast his failure. 

Under control once again, he tilted his head back further to see if he could still move his fingers. The prickling sensation that started minutes after he was positioned had jackknifed to worrisome numbness. He concentrated on moving each finger, satisfied that they still obeyed him. 

The elevation of his arms ensured that his wrists and shoulders bore the maximum strain. Dried blood caked his wrists above the tightly clamped cuffs, pulled relentlessly from the downward drag of gravity. The muscle burn in his arms and shoulders had increased to unbearable levels. The now-constant twitching and shaking beneath his skin forewarned of a breaking point. The ache in his legs was no better; they were spread and raised a few inches higher than the blocks, enough to threaten his balance. But those things together couldn't break him. No; stretched horizontally at eye level over his prone body was the thin rope, and over that rope, attached to the leather strap, lay the small teardrop-shaped means of his destruction.

Giving a final glare to his tormenter, his eyes drifted closed, and he once again forced himself to think of something other than the strain on his body. 

He felt the air move by his feet, but before he could brace himself, another teardrop was added to the leather strap. "Fuck! No more. Please, fuck," he begged as he arched upwards, trying to relieve the torment. Beneath him, the bar rolled backward as he shifted his hips forward. Wild-eyed, he froze, not daring to breathe. He let his weight drop slowly until he felt the curve of warm steel across his tailbone, and then carefully rolled himself back until he was balanced again. New sweat and hot tears burned his eyes at the near-failure. 

His throat felt raw as he ground out, "Please, I'll do anything. Fuck, please, just make it stop." He knew his words fell on deaf ears; the only thing they were listening for was the one word he would not allow himself to utter. He let his head drop back, throat stretched taut as he drown himself in sensation. With each eon that passed on the clock, pleasure overtook more of the pain.

If he hadn't been concentrating, he would have missed the rush of air that signaled another change. "No," he whined piteously, even as he tilted his hips upward. His arms and legs shook in their restraints, muscles screaming at the abuse they'd taken so far. Anticipation of another teardrop being added tightened his stomach and set his heart racing. 

When the now-familiar weight was lifted, he screamed, a full-throated cry of denial that rose in pitch as the weight was brought down to swing gently between his spread thighs. His scream ended on a hitched breath, then another, until he was trembling with need.

"You son of a bitch. Please, _please_ ," he chanted between breaths, barely coherent. He was losing focus; losing the battle with himself. Beneath him, the steel bar was rolling a quarter inch with his body's motions and he couldn't fight it any more. His body went limp as he relaxed his tight control. His butt rested tenuously on the steel bar as first his legs, then his arms, went slack. Immediately, new aches began in his back and arms from this new position.  
Tears pricked his eyes as he whispered, "Exorcism," signaling his defeat. 

He felt tension in the leather strap and tried to rise with it, but his body was spent. He hissed, "Son of a bitch," through his teeth as the teardrop-shaped weights were removed. The strap, now harmlessly weightless, landed on his abdomen. Gentle hands quickly released his ankles and lowered his legs to the floor. 

"Fucking hell," he cried as he rolled backwards off the blocks and the steel bar, all his weight now supported by his wrists. "Fuck, oh, fuck, fuck, fu—" 

Strong arms lifted him to his feet and he sagged against the tall, solid body. "I should have been more careful. Are you okay?" was whispered into his hair as his wrists were quickly released and his arms lowered carefully. 

"M'fine," he murmured into the shoulder his face was buried in. Hands supported his shoulders as he was lowered to the mat on the floor. The cuffs were removed from his ankles and wrists, drawing a displeased grunt from his brother at seeing the blood. 

Even though Sam had every right to be angry, he still kept his voice modulated and low as he asked, "Why didn't you tell me the lining cracked?"

Dean opened one eye to glare up at his brother, not needing to verbalize his answer. 

That drew an annoyed sigh. "Why didn't you stop the whole thing? You know I always bring replacements. It would have taken a minute to change out the cuffs." 

He closed his eyes and swallowed hard against explaining what he still didn't fully understand, but only knew he _needed_. "Can't stop once I'm in. It's—it's like a dare. Or a challenge. Me versus myself." No matter how hard Dean tried, he couldn't verbalize just what it was that sang through his veins afterward. Sam didn't push himself to the extremes he did. 

He groaned softly in pleasure as his hands were massaged to bring back feeling. "Amazingly good at that." Even the stinging return of circulation couldn't penetrate the haze of lethargy that settled over him. When Sam moved to his arms, then ankles and thighs, his body felt light as air. With one exception. 

He knew what was coming next, but couldn't defend against it, nor did he want to. He whined as the butter-soft leather was unbuckled and removed from his cock and balls, then choked on his breath as normal circulation returned. 

As always, with normal blood flow came the tidal-swell fury of emotion, and as always, Sam kept his distance. Dean went inside himself, crashing through the swirling feelings and emotions: _burning ecstasy violent agony vicious blissful excruciating craving brutal needful anguish necessity sadistic inhuman hedonist_.

When the worst of it was sweated out of him, he came back to awareness with his back against Sam’s chest, long arms encircling him and indistinguishable murmuring in his ear. As he stirred, Sam lessened his grip. “Hey.”

He couldn’t look at Sam yet. He nodded to let Sam know he was okay, then made indications that he wanted to get up. With more than a little help, he stood on his own and made his way over to his clothes. Joints and muscles ached from their prolonged positions, but a hot bath would relieve the worst of it. Dressing was always a bitch, but the promise of hot water and cool sheets kept him going. 

As he slid on his leather jacket, he felt his armor snap back into place. He directed a smile that was more a grimace in Sam’s direction, but it gave his brother the incentive to clean up the evidence that they’d been there. Abandoned warehouses across the country had bore witness to this ritual over the past few years. Dean had given up resistance to it long ago. 

This was something Sam needed, and he’d do anything for his brother.

The End


End file.
